


look what you made me do

by ToAStranger



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 11:26:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: Billy can tell someone to go take a flying leap and they will without thinking twice. Then he meets Steve Harrington.Or:That super power au no one asked for.





	look what you made me do

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops, another one sitting in my docs for way too long. 
> 
> Short but sweet. 
> 
> WARNING: at least two folk kill themselves under Billy's orders

Billy Hargrove had never once met a person who wouldn't do exactly what he wanted, give him exactly what he asked for, right when he asked for it. 

Well, no, that's not quite right. 

They call people like him, people with extraordinary abilities,  _ gifted _ . Billy didn't come into his gifts until he was twelve and angry, until his mother was in the dirt, no matter how many times he told her to  _ wake up _ , to  _ open your eyes _ . 

Billy didn't come into his gifts until staring his father in the face, bruised and spitting blood, and he'd said  _ go drink yourself to death _ , and Neil had. Had upended every bottle in the house until he'd drowned in it. 

Billy had watched, eyes wide and horrified, until he'd suffocated on liquor in the middle of their living room. 

After that, everything changed. 

***

He starts small. Careful. Just enough to get by. 

Spends a year in a foster home, telling Susan exactly what he wants to eat, has a little foster sister who fawns over him without a single command. Shares his secret with her and her alone. Tells her only one thing:  _ don't tell anyone _ . 

She never does. 

Not even after he runs off, on the cusp of fourteen, and it wears off. Time and distance do that, he realizes. Tests. Hones his words into careful weapons, ticking time bombs, that get him what he wants, when he wants it, with no one the wiser.

He asks for what he needs, free of charge. Builds a small fortune, stays in places he'd never even dreamed of, spends his days roaming and learning and pushing the boundaries of his own skill. His  _ gift _ . 

*** 

He's seventeen when someone catches up to him. One of many shady organisations. 

They don't know what he's capable of.  _ He  _ doesn't know what he's capable of. Not until, in his panic to get away -- he knows the stories, heard the rumors, experiments and horrible other things, children used as weapons who can move things with their mind, make you see things -- and he doesn't want to be part of it. 

He tells the agent on his tail to _ freeze _ . Tells him to take out his gun. Tells him:  _ blow your fucking brains out _ . 

Watches as he crumples to the ground in a heap, blood spattered on the wall. Runs back to his suite and vomits his guts up. 

This is the second time he kills. This is not the last.

*** 

He grows careful. Makes people forget him or stay with him. Has ears and eyes everywhere; he's stronger now. 

His taste improves. He steals, he takes, he thrives. He gives himself only the best -- food, places, clothes -- and knows it's his right. That he wouldn't have this gift if he didn't deserve it. 

***

He's twenty eight and in New York. Sometimes, he gets letters or texts from a girl that is now a woman, checking in on him, making sure he's okay. He sends back gifts and money. 

He has everything he could ever want. 

Then, he meets Steve Harrington. 

***

Billy’s not drunk-- because he doesn’t trust his tongue enough when he’s had too much to drink-- but he’s buzzed and laughing and walking down the street with Tommy and Carol at his flank. They’ve been all over each other all night, making moon eyes when they think Billy can’t see; Carol’s his assistant, when he needs it, and Tommy carries a gun tucked into his nice suit just in case. 

Easy to pull, easy to thrall, easy to sway into blind devotion-- but Billy thinks even the money would be enough without words. He’d tried the disposable posse before, and it ended messily too many times. He treats what little staff he has well.

It’s a night like any other night, walking down the street after hours spent at a bar, and Billy’s got his arm around some twink’s shoulders, telling him exactly what he  _ wants  _ to do to him when they finally get back to his penthouse, leaving plenty of breathing room for his date of the night to tell him off if he chooses. 

He won’t, though. Billy’s hot enough all on his own that he knows that. 

They round a corner down a dead street when Billy sees him. 

At first, when Billy stops to watch him throw a mugger halfway across the street with a single push, he thinks perhaps he’s run into one of those vigilantes that are always on the news these days. But the man’s in jeans and a t-shirt, in ratty sneakers, in a green bomber jacket; none of the dark colors, the flashy uniforms gifted people wear when they choose a life of fighting crime. 

There’s even a few bags of Chinese take-out resting on the pavement near his feet.

Even so, he’s art in motion. Billy doesn’t have much taste for classic galleries, but he has a Monet hanging in his study. He knows what good art is supposed to look like. 

When the muggers-- there’s three of them, all big and broad and more than Billy would bother with actually fighting-- are down and groaning, the man crouches by the kid on the ground and tips his face up to the dim light of the street.

“You okay?” he asks. 

But Billy is already clapping. Cutting everything off as wide, brown eyes dart to him. 

“Well done,” Billy says. “Really, quite the show.” 

He stares at Billy, from where he’s at on his knees, and Billy wants him there always. Wonders what it would take to get him there willingly. All that strength, bowed at Billy’s feet. 

“Take this. Get outta here, kid.” He drags his focus from Billy, steals the lovely sight of those brown eyes from him, and ushers the kid with the bloody nose onto his feet with nothing more than a calling card and a napkin from whatever Chinese place he went to he’s got stuffed into his pockets; when the kid’s gone, he stands, brushing off his pants. “Can I help you?” 

“I certainly hope so,” Billy says, makes a fleeting gesture with his hand, and steps forward as his entourage lingers back. “Tell me your name.” 

“Steve,” he says, blinks once, and then purses his lips. “You gonna call the cops?” 

“Why would I do that?” 

Steve lifts a brow, but he doesn’t reply-- and that’s okay. Questions aren’t always compulsions. 

He crouches instead, scooping up his dinner, nudging paper containers around like he’s making sure everything is intact. He sighs, shoulders easing, and then glances back up. 

It’s the eyes, Billy thinks. There’s something there; something dark and hot and powerful in them. There’s nothing else that suggests it in his whipcord frame, long legs and lithe lines, shoulders slumped and posture lazy. Nothing in that pretty face; pale skin, long lashes, nice mouth. But his eyes do. 

“You with these guys?” Steve asks. 

Behind Billy, Tommy cackles. “Two beat thugs? Not likely.” 

“Good,” Steve says, glancing over Billy’s shoulder, and it makes him snap a quick  _ shut up _ at them, just to get Steve’s eyes back on him and only him. “Listen, guy--” 

“Billy.” 

“Listen,  _ Billy _ ,” Steve breathes out. “You didn’t see me, you don’t know who did this, unless you wanna take the credit yourself. Call the cops when I’m gone, or I will. Doesn’t matter to me.” 

And then he’s turning.  _ Leaving _ . 

Billy steps after him. “Wait.” 

He stops in his tracks. 

“Hero like you deserves a reward for his hard work, don’t you think?” Billy plasters a charming smile on when Steve twists to look at him again; Billy can’t let him get away, yet. “Come over to my place. Let me treat you to a better meal than kung-pow chicken.” 

“Beef and broccoli,” Steve says, jiggling the back about with a rustle. “And thanks, but no thanks.” 

And that’s-- 

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a  _ suggestion _ . It was a demand. 

Something hot wells in Billy’s chest. “Come over for a drink, then.” 

“Listen, buddy,” Steve says, nose wrinkling up. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, and I think we probably oughtta keep it that way.” 

He turns away again, walks away again, and Billy stumbles. 

“ _ Stop _ ,” he says, demands,  _ orders _ , pushing weight into his words, willing Steve’s feet to still. 

“Have a nice night, pal.” Steve says, waving over his shoulder, but he doesn’t hesitate. 

Doesn’t even trip. 

And Billy-- Billy doesn’t know what to do with that. 

***

He tracks Steve down. Uses all his resources to find him. 

_ Stalks him.  _

It's really, all in all, not very healthy. 

***

"Are you following me?" Steve asks, when he spots Billy in the corner of the bar, and he sits across from him with a beer and a furrow between his brows. 

"No," Billy says, fingers drumming on the surface of the table. "Why would you think that?"

"You're that weird guy," Steve says, then leans in and lowers his voice. "From the other night. With the thugs."

Billy nods, makes a face like he's dumb, like he's just realizing; Steve looks like he can see right through it. "Right, right," Billy says. "Super strength guy."

Steve hushes him. "Could you, like,  _ not?" _

Billy leans in. "Don't want people knowing?"

"Listen, guy--"

"Billy," Billy says, with some mounting frustration, because how could Steve  _ forget him?  _ "It's Billy."

Steve blinks and then nods. "Right. Well. I'd be  _ stupid _ to go bragging, alright? So, keep your voice down?"

Billy nods slow. He's not sure how to do this with someone who can blatantly ignore his compulsions. 

"What's in it for me?" he asks. 

Steve's brows fly up. "I could buy you a drink."

Billy grins. 

***

"So, what's your deal?" Steve asks, a couple drinks later. 

Super strength or not, he's not very good at holding his booze. Billy can see the flush of his cheeks. The lazy way his hand moves. 

"What do you mean?"

"I  _ mean _ ," Steve says, pointing a finger at Billy's chest. "You were definitely following me. Not exactly sure  _ why _ because you don't seem like a suit or a cop--"

Billy nearly snorts up his drink and Steve grins. 

"-- but you're definitely shady as fuck. So. What did you want?"

"You," Billy says, because yeah,  _ okay,  _ he's not great at holding his drink either. 

Or maybe Steve doesn't have a face he can lie to. 

"Me?" Steve asks, blinking. 

"You," Billy nods. "I've never met someone I can't-- that I can't--"

"Oh," Steve nods, solemn and sage, drunkenly patting the back of Billy's hand. "That you can't control?"

Billy nearly chokes on his own tongue. He sputters and Steve takes mercy on him. 

"I have a friend like you. Couple of 'em. One can, like, project images into your mind. Shit that's not real." Steve says. "I know what that feels like. I'm a freak among freaks."

"You-- I--"

"It's cool, dude." Steve shrugs. "Gotta do what you gotta, right? You're not, like, going around telling people to jump off buildings, are you?"

" _ No." _

Steve nods, picking at the label on his beer. "That's good."

"So, you can--? You've always been able to resist it?"

"Yep," Steve pops the word out of his mouth. "Never met anyone like me, huh?"

Steve doesn't know how right he is.

***

Billy Hargrove is twenty eight when Steve Harrington changes his entire life. Shakes everything up and twists Billy inside out. 

Because Billy can't demand a single thing from him. Even when it's a slip up, an accident, Steve knows. Steve gives him this  _ look _ . And Billy feels  _ bad _ .

But Billy also feels  _ good _ . Because he can look Steve dead in the eye, tell him to  _ go fuck yourself _ , and Steve will just laugh until he's blue in the face. 

Billy's never had this before. Not since his mom died, at least. 

In its own way, it's freeing. It's  _ freedom.  _

Total and complete  _ freedom _ . 

***

Billy looks at him and says "kiss me."   
  
Steve smiles. "No."

They're in bed. It took a long time to build to this. To Steve curled up with Billy, in Billy's bed, with nothing but the sheets and their skin.    
  
"Kiss me," he says, voice cracking, and Steve cradles his face between his palms.    
  
"No, Billy."

He's the only one who can refuse him. The only one who stays  _ anyway _ .    
  
Billy shatters. Hiccups out a breath and slumps into Steve's arms. Shudders as Steve strokes slow and sure through his hair.    
  
"Love me," he begs. "Please, love me."   
  
"No," Steve says again, but Billy thinks he understands, thinks he knows what Steve isn't saying, because he presses his mouth to Billy’s temple and says "never."   
  
But Billy thinks he means forever.


End file.
